ricochet. If I were a betting man, I’d put money on the doctor digging a chunk of rock outta there.” He looked at Ric. “You’re lucky. If that had been a bullet from a .44, you’d be minus a leg.”
“I’m lucky, too,” Burns said. “If you hadn’t been there, Mr. Alvarado,
I’d
be minus a son.” He turned to Foley. “Let’s have our men stand down, and invite our guests inside, shall we?”
Annie opened her mouth, but Burns anticipated her request.
“My personal physician is on his way over,” he told her. “It’ll be faster—and far more discreet—than calling for an ambulance, Miss…?”
It was clearly an invitation for her to provide her name, but Ric beat her to it. “Jones,” he said as the larger bodyguard helped him to his feet.
“Of course,” Burns said. “Miss…Jones.” He didn’t buy her a.k.a. for a second, but seemed more amused than annoyed. “You look as if you’d enjoy a chance to get cleaned up.”
Enjoy. What an interesting word choice after the evening they’d had. Annie quickly moved to help Ric on his other side, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held on tight, more as if he were protecting her than receiving her support.
“Stay close,” he murmured as they followed Burns into the house. That is, the palace.
Or rather, the castle. There were actually suits of armor in the marble-tiled foyer. And palm trees. Tall ones. And mirrors.
Annie caught sight of herself—no wonder Ric had flipped when he saw her. She’d managed to smear the front of her shirt with the blood that she’d gotten on her hands when she’d slipped. There was even some on her chin.
His blood.
Burns raised his voice. “Maria! Will you take Miss Jones to a guest room, so she can shower? Oh, and find her something to wear.”
“Yes, sir.” An older woman, dressed more like the hostess of a posh restaurant than a household servant, smiled at Annie. “This way, miss.”
“She’ll stay with me,” Ric said, at the exact same time Annie said, “I’ll wait for the doctor, with Ric.”
“Show them both to a guest room,” Burns ordered Maria. He smiled at Ric and Annie, every inch the gracious host. “I’ll send the doctor up as soon as he arrives.”
Ric lay on the doctor’s portable examination table with his eyes closed, soaked with sweat as the doctor finished stitching him up. It
had
been a piece of rock, not a bullet, that had lodged in his leg. Foley had been right.
But damn,
that
was thirty minutes of his life that he never wanted to revisit, ever again.
“Next time, don’t refuse the anesthesia,” the doctor told him, taking his gloves off with a snap. “For your information, local anesthesia only affects—”
“I know,” Ric interrupted. “I didn’t want it.” He didn’t trust anyone in Burns’s lair, particularly not Dr. Midnight Housecall, here.
“I’m giving you a ten-day course of antibiotics.”
There was a rattling sound, and Ric opened his eyes to see him holding out a plastic pill bottle. “Just write me a prescription.”
The doctor shook his head. He set the bottle down on the desk, near a pile of clothes that someone—the woman named Maria—had brought for Ric to change into, after he’d showered. “You know I can’t do that.”
Because this entire procedure had been illegal. Gunshot wounds had to be reported, but information about this one wasn’t going to get anywhere near the DA’s office. Not via a report from this doctor, anyway.
“What’s he got on you?” Ric asked. The doctor was an older man, surely well established in his career. “Gambling debts?”
“One pill, three times a day,” the doctor ordered. “Any sign of infection, redness, swelling—call the number on the bottle.” He gathered up his things. “Mr. Foley’ll put the bandage on, after you shower. Take your time, though. Don’t stand up until you’re ready.”
“To whom do I address the thank-you note?”
The
“I’m lucky, too,” Burns said. “If you hadn’t been there, Mr. Alvarado,
I’d
be minus a son.” He turned to Foley. “Let’s have our men stand down, and invite our guests inside, shall we?”
Annie opened her mouth, but Burns anticipated her request.
“My personal physician is on his way over,” he told her. “It’ll be faster—and far more discreet—than calling for an ambulance, Miss…?”
It was clearly an invitation for her to provide her name, but Ric beat her to it. “Jones,” he said as the larger bodyguard helped him to his feet.
“Of course,” Burns said. “Miss…Jones.” He didn’t buy her a.k.a. for a second, but seemed more amused than annoyed. “You look as if you’d enjoy a chance to get cleaned up.”
Enjoy. What an interesting word choice after the evening they’d had. Annie quickly moved to help Ric on his other side, but he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and held on tight, more as if he were protecting her than receiving her support.
“Stay close,” he murmured as they followed Burns into the house. That is, the palace.
Or rather, the castle. There were actually suits of armor in the marble-tiled foyer. And palm trees. Tall ones. And mirrors.
Annie caught sight of herself—no wonder Ric had flipped when he saw her. She’d managed to smear the front of her shirt with the blood that she’d gotten on her hands when she’d slipped. There was even some on her chin.
His blood.
Burns raised his voice. “Maria! Will you take Miss Jones to a guest room, so she can shower? Oh, and find her something to wear.”
“Yes, sir.” An older woman, dressed more like the hostess of a posh restaurant than a household servant, smiled at Annie. “This way, miss.”
“She’ll stay with me,” Ric said, at the exact same time Annie said, “I’ll wait for the doctor, with Ric.”
“Show them both to a guest room,” Burns ordered Maria. He smiled at Ric and Annie, every inch the gracious host. “I’ll send the doctor up as soon as he arrives.”
Ric lay on the doctor’s portable examination table with his eyes closed, soaked with sweat as the doctor finished stitching him up. It
had
been a piece of rock, not a bullet, that had lodged in his leg. Foley had been right.
But damn,
that
was thirty minutes of his life that he never wanted to revisit, ever again.
“Next time, don’t refuse the anesthesia,” the doctor told him, taking his gloves off with a snap. “For your information, local anesthesia only affects—”
“I know,” Ric interrupted. “I didn’t want it.” He didn’t trust anyone in Burns’s lair, particularly not Dr. Midnight Housecall, here.
“I’m giving you a ten-day course of antibiotics.”
There was a rattling sound, and Ric opened his eyes to see him holding out a plastic pill bottle. “Just write me a prescription.”
The doctor shook his head. He set the bottle down on the desk, near a pile of clothes that someone—the woman named Maria—had brought for Ric to change into, after he’d showered. “You know I can’t do that.”
Because this entire procedure had been illegal. Gunshot wounds had to be reported, but information about this one wasn’t going to get anywhere near the DA’s office. Not via a report from this doctor, anyway.
“What’s he got on you?” Ric asked. The doctor was an older man, surely well established in his career. “Gambling debts?”
“One pill, three times a day,” the doctor ordered. “Any sign of infection, redness, swelling—call the number on the bottle.” He gathered up his things. “Mr. Foley’ll put the bandage on, after you shower. Take your time, though. Don’t stand up until you’re ready.”
“To whom do I address the thank-you note?”
The
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